


Silver Bullets: Sterek Ficlets

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M, Sterekweek2018, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: An ongoing collection of my Sterek ficlets inspired by tumblr prompts and posts.Collection closed for now!  (But we all know I’ll open it again)





	1. “You’re in love with her”

**Author's Note:**

> Ratings, warnings and credits will be posted in the chapter notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialog Prompt#9: “You’re in love with her” by an Anon
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: Hale Pack, everyone is alive, kissing, witches, cursed!Stiles, terrible poetry

Derek drags Stiles through the front door of the rebuilt Hale House, a meaty fist twisted in the front of his red hoodie, claws poking holes in the cotton.

 

“A curse most foul is amiss; the only cure be true loves kiss!”  Stiles smacks both hands over his mouth, amber eyes going round as dinner plates when the whole pack turns to stare at him. 

“What the hell’s wrong with Stilinski this time?”  Jackson asks, bored. 

 

“Witches,” Derek replies, finally detangling himself from Stiles and stalking a few paces away.  Erica laughs so hard she rolls off the couch. 

 

“Do not guffaw, sweet lady, ‘tis true!  This lovesick lad be sad and blue.” Stiles abruptly walks into the kitchen, returning moments later with duct tape firmly placed over his mouth.  

 

“It’s like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one,” Isaac says with a mean-spirited smirk.  Stiles flips him the bird and plops down onto the love seat, motioning magnanimously at Derek to fill the pack in on what transpired in the woods.  

 

Derek sighs like  _ he’s  _ the one doomed to be a Disney prince, and sits down next to Stiles.  “We were out patrolling, and Stiles trounced right into the middle of a magic circle where a witch was performing a love spell; he ruined the whole thing.  Apparently she spent months preparing for the ritual, so you can imagine how pissed off she was.” The whole pack nods in understanding, which Stiles thinks is pretty rude.  “She cursed him, disappeared in a puff of pink glitter and now he’s a poet. A really,  _ really _ shitty poet.”

 

Stiles lets loose an affronted squeak from behind his gag.  Jackson and Isaac look like they’re about to pee themselves.  

 

Allison sniggers behind her hand.  “So he just… rhymes? About love?”

 

Derek nods, serious and solemn.  “It’s worse than Scott, when you two break up.”

 

“Hey!  Fuck you, dude!” Scott scowls, perching on the armrest next to Stiles and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Tough break, bro, but don’t worry. We’ll fix this.” He turns to the others. “So, how do we fix him?”

 

“Keep the tape on indefinitely.”  Allison punches Isaac in the shoulder for the comment, but she’s on the verge of a giggle fit.   _ Traitor _ .

 

“Where’s Lydia?” Derek asks, grimacing.  “She’s the key.”

 

“Wait, what?”  Jackson springs off the couch.  “Why do you need  _ my _ girlfriend?”  Jackson may be a dumbass, but even he can see where this is headed.

 

“He babbled about ‘true loves kiss’ the entire two miles home.  If Stiles kisses Lydia, I think he’ll be cured.” 

 

“Bullshit!” Jackson yells, pointing a scaly, claw tipped finger in Stiles’ face.  “No way I’m going to let  _ him  _ stick his tongue down my girl’s throat!”

 

“Lovely, Jackson,” Lydia scolds, appearing at the second story balcony, two giant tomes of ancient Latin clutched to her chest.  She descends the staircase like a Queen. “Can  _ someone  _ please fill me in on why I need to make out with Stiles?”  

 

Jackson growls while Allison recounts the magical tale to Lydia.  When she finishes, Boyd says, “Uh, guys? Should his heart be beating this fast?”  They all swivel to where Stiles is sitting, face gone pale under the thick silver tape.

 

“We won’t let Jackson maim you,” Erica pronounces helpfully. 

 

Derek turns to Jackson, fuming a few feet away, and motions toward the front door.  “Take a walk. Come back in ten minutes.” Jackson stomps out the door with a few vile curses thrown over his shoulder.

 

Derek looks to Lydia, beseeching.  “Lydia, would you be willing to kiss Stiles to break the spell?”  Next to him, Stiles is sweating profusely and breathing hard through his nose.

 

Lydia eyes Stiles critically, then stalks forward, coming to stand between his spread knees. “Are you sure this will help?  What if it makes him worse? What if he starts rapping or something?”

 

“Heaven help us,” Isaac moans.  This time Allison does laugh.

 

“You love her,” Derek says to Stiles, voice coming out angrier than he intended.  He takes a deep breath and lowers his volume, starts again. “You’re in love with her.  One kiss and the spell will be broken.” 

 

Stiles shakes his head venomously and Lydia rolls her eyes.  “You better have brushed your teeth today.” She leans down and cruelly rips the tape from Stiles’ face.  The whole pack winces.

 

As soon as the tape is off the words spill from Stiles’ mouth. “My love is the moon and I the sun.  Tell me; could you be the one?”

 

She pats his cheek with a manicured hand.  “Oh, honey. For your sake, I sure as hell hope so.”  She kisses him hard on the mouth.

 

Everyone holds their breath when she backs away, eyes shrewd and assessing. Stiles blinks his eyes open and says, voice breathless, “Kissing such beauty is time well spent, but you can't help me, to my lament.”

 

Lydia harumpfs.  “Someone tell me what he said,  _ exactly _ , after the witch cursed him.”  

 

“A curse most foul is amiss; the only cure be true loves kiss,” Derek repeats like a dutiful school boy.  

 

The look she gives him is downright terrifying.  “ _ True love _ , Derek.  Not a high school crush.  Get your shit together.”

 

She turns around, picks her books up off the coffee table where she’d placed them, and heads for the stairs, mumbling under her breath.  Stiles can’t hear what she says, but the werewolves here her loud and clear.  _ Boys are so stupid. _

 

“Boys!  That’s it!” Scott shouts, and to the surprise of everyone in the room, announces, “Stiles is bisexual!”  Stiles groans, mortified. “Maybe it’s a dude that needs to kiss him. And what love is truer than ours? We’re practically family.”  He leans over and pecks Stiles on the lips. 

 

“What the hell am I witnessing?” Boyd whispers.  

 

Stiles glowers at Scott.  “Appreciated is our brotherhood, but platonic love is no good.”  

 

Scott looks like a confused puppy.  “That’s weird. It worked in  _ Frozen _ .” 

 

“Let me try!” Erica yells, roughly pushing Scott out of the way and planting a smacking kiss on their sonneteer.  Surprising absolutely no one, it doesn’t work. 

 

Stiles’ swivels toward Derek, mouth stained two different shades of red and swollen from three consecutive kisses and rough tape removal, and Derek needs to look away, close his eyes against the sight. “A curse most foul is amiss; the only cure be true loves kiss,” Stiles whispers. 

 

“How are we supposed to find Stiles’ true love?  It could be anyone,” Isaac complains.

 

Derek looks back at Stiles, cheeks now as pink as his lips.  This isn’t at all how he imagined doing this, probably would never have done it.  Maybe the spell wasn't a curse after all. Maybe it was a gift.

 

He leans in, Stiles moving to meet him in the scant few inches between them on the loveseat.  Their noses brush, and Derek gets a lungful of Stiles’ scent and then its pressure and pleasure and slick wetness that Derek could easily become addicted to.  When he backs away, breathing hard, he sees that Stiles has beard burn now. He’s a mess, but he’s smiling ear to ear.

 

“Fucking  _ finally _ ,” Stiles rejoices.

 

The front door swings open and Jackson waltzes in, see’s them with their arms wrapped around each other, the entire pack looking stunned, and freezes on the threshold.  “Apparently I missed something important.” 

 

“Yup,” Stiles replies, never sparing Jackson a glance, and leans in for another kiss.     

 

Derek thinks, yeah, it was definitely a gift.   


	2. “It’s really not that complicated”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialog prompt #1: “It’s really not that complicated” by [smowkie](http://sterekshaven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: bisexuality, coming out, Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, the sheriff's name is John fight me

“Are you…” Stiles rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around the living room to avoid his father’s gaze.  “Are you disappointed?”

 

“Stiles, please look at me,” the Sheriff quietly pleads.  But it’s not that easy. Stiles is scared. Even though he asked the question,  _ needs _ the answer, hearing it is one thing.   _ Seeing _ it written all over his father’s face, the image seared forever onto his brain, is quite another.  “If I’m disappointed in anyone, it’s me.”

 

Stiles’ brow furrows, brown eyes burning a hole in the cushion of the ugly old plaid recliner his father refuses to get rid of, because his mother brought it home on a whim two years before she passed away.  “I don’t understand.”

 

John sighs. “I don’t expect you to, at least, not right now.  It’s part of being a parent, I think. You  _ want _ things for your kids, picture them in your mind, clearer and sharper than anything you’ve ever imagined before.  When you were an infant, Claudia and I used to lie in bed and daydream about what your voice would sound like, your laugh.  As you got older, the dreams got bigger: what you’d be when you grew up, where you’d live, your wedding. It was so vivid, that future for you I fabricated in my mind, Stiles, but it was  _ mine _ , not yours.”  

 

From the corner of his eye Stiles can see his father’s shoulders square up, stubborn and determined.  “Maybe it doesn’t turn out exactly as I’d envisioned, but that’s on  _ me _ , not you.  Now, will you please look at me?”

 

Stiles drags his eyes to his father’s face, takes in the deepening grooves around his eyes and mouth.  His father is smiling.

 

“I know it’s… complicated.”  Stiles winces. “You and mom probably didn’t account for a child who’d like both men and women.  I’m sorry.”

 

“Never apologize.”  The passion in John’s voice booms, reverberating like a gong inside Stiles chest, shaking loose the ragged breath he’s been holding.  “No matter what those pictures we painted looked like, they all had one thing in common, the only thing that counts. You were  _ happy _ .”

 

Stiles’ eyes get wet at the words and his heart fills with so many emotions it’s impossible to pinpoint just one.   

 

“Are you in love with someone, Stiles?”

 

“Yeah, Dad, I am.”

 

His father nods.  “And does this person make you happy?”

 

It may not have always been true, but it is now.  Happy and crazy and  _ whole _ .  “Yes.  More than anything.” 

 

“Then for me, it’s really not that complicated.  I will never be disappointed in your happiness, son.  It’s something to celebrate. Now, does this guy have a name?”

 

“He does.”  Stiles wipes the wetness from his cheeks and grins.  “Derek Hale.”


	3. I'm a spy but on your side, you see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the tumblr FBI agent Memes
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: cyber-stalking, FBI   
> Credits:Title from Private Eyes by Hall & Oates

After the little toe of his right foot was obliterated in the crossfire of an FBI field agent training exercise (don’t ask- these kinds of things just happen to him), Stiles was reassigned to the Cybercrime Counterterrorism unit, which is a really fancy-pants way of saying he’s relegated to desk duty, spying on old, fat white dudes through their webcams. It’s the absolute worst; a six month sentence of unbelievably boring hours that grate against his ADHD like fine grit sandpaper, breaking down his patience and sanity at an agonizingly slow rate. The only bright side is that for the first six weeks, he’d been allowed to “work from the comfort of home while he healed”. Since his foot needed to remain elevated, Stiles decided the best place to surveil from was his fucking bed.

His superior, Special Agent-in-Charge Thompson, assigned him two men with suspicious search histories. The first was an overweight fourty-year-old with premature baldness, whose taste in porn was honestly more alarming than his hollow threats against the government on social media. Stiles will never look at the green M&M the same again, thanks douchebag.

The other, citizen DH1850, was the opposite of anyone Stiles had ever spied on before. For starters, the guy was not much older than Stiles, and he was hot. Not just run of the mill attractive either- that dude was hot like _burning_. And probably dumber than a box of rocks, since DH1850 kept his laptop open and running in his bedroom 24/7. What a rookie mistake. Was this his second day using the internet or something? Stiles thought everyone was in on the government agent watching them meme these days.

For the first week Stiles faithfully toggled between his two assignments, but in the tedium DH1850 quickly piqued his interest in more ways than one. In between google searches on obscure plant life Stiles had never heard of or cared about, and looking up ingredients to mass produce pipe bombs, the guy would drop to the wood floor next to his bed in the late afternoon and perform hundreds of shirtless push ups, arm and back muscles rippling deliciously under the strain. Stiles monitored this behavior closely for scientific purposes, of course. Talk about dinner and a show.

And this dude was obsessed with researching animal maulings around the state of California, all while wearing a sexy scowl that gave Stiles a new appreciation for eyebrows. His cross-referencing rivaled even Stiles’, which was really saying something. They were often awake together in the middle of the night, faces aglow in shallow illumination from their computer screens. Stiles found himself wanting to make DH1850 a cup of decaf tea and tuck him into bed… preferably Stiles’ bed, if he was being completely honest.

By week three, Stiles took an avid interest in the plants and herbs DH1850 kept researching. What Stiles originally thought was a weird gardening fetish was now making him think twice. Many of the herbs had strange medicinal purposes. Why would one man need to know so many cures for Aconitum poisoning?

It took him halfway into week five to connect the proverbial dots (and really he should be ashamed it took him that long; he’s a trained FBI agent for fuck’s sake). DH1850 had looked exceptionally attractive but harried during week three, which Stiles only just realized was during a full moon, pacing his bedroom like a caged animal before stripping down and storming out of camera range for six long hours. Stiles understandably was slack jawed and panting at the sight of the man’s perky ass trouncing by, so the lunar timing was bound to escape him.

Not anymore, though! Now Stiles has the perfect explanation for the freakish flare of light that always cock-blocked him from getting a truly good look at DH1850’s eye color whenever he glanced directly toward the webcam lens. Combine Stiles’ boredom with the Wikipedia hole he had researched himself into, and add in DH1850’s freakish good looks and .02% body fat, and Stiles knew exactly what was going on here.

DH1850 was a werewolf.

“DH1850 is a werewolf,” he told Agent Thompson when he called his personal cell phone at 3:26am.

Agent Thompson, much to Stiles’s dismay, was less than enthusiastic. “Time to wean off the vicodin, Stilinski.”

“But, but- Sir! Werewolves!”

“Call me again at 3am raving about mythical creatures, and I will assign you to the Postal Inspection Service.”

Stiles’ squak of protest was cut short by the line abruptly going dead. On his screen, DH1850 rubbed his eyes and stretched his muscular arms above his unfairly handsome head. Stiles could practically hear the pop of his spine through the computer.

Clearly, there was only one thing to do. Stiles hastily threw a few flannel shirts and his laptop charger into his backpack, and hobbled out to his rusted but faithful jeep. Time to take matters into his own hands. Not only did the FBI not believe him that there were werewolves in California, but the one werewolf he found was downright terrible at self-preservation. The man didn’t even know enough to slap some tape over his webcam lens. He obviously needed all the help he could get.

“DH1850, here comes your internet fairy-godmother,” he proclaimed as he revved the engine and backed out of his driveway.

This was by far the best idea Stiles had ever had.


	4. Better Than

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [adorable edit by stilesstilinski](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/post/177074196422/stiilesstilinski-incorrect-teen-wolf-9) on tumblr
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: kissing, swearing, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey

They’ve been going around and around for thirty minutes, deciding who should approach the succubus directly, when Scott finally begs, “let’s just draw straws!”

 

“That’s dumb,” Isaac declares, head lolling against the poster covering the brick wall.  “I hate to say it but it needs to be Scott. He’s in love with someone, so it will have less sway over him.  It’s the safest option.”

 

“Yeah, and the least believable!” Stiles scoffs.  “Have you seen this guy bumble through a pickup line?  It’s painful to watch.”

 

Isaac rolls his eyes.  “I doubt a succubus will care what he’s saying.  She’s looking for an easy meal and if he’s offering himself up like a cheeseburger on a silver platter, who's she to refuse?”

 

“I beg to differ,” Stiles argues.  “Demons like her don’t take a night out for ground beef, Isaac, they want a  _ steak _ .  Prime rib!  Filet mignon!  She’s hunting, and  _ easy _ is no fun.  You think Chris Argent wants werewolves to just lay down in front of him, waiting to get shot?”

 

He shrugs, contrary.  “All I’m saying is pour some A1 sauce over it and it all tastes the same.”

 

“What’s she gonna do suck it out of his d—“

 

“Okay!”  Scott yells, eyes going wide.  “I’m getting a little uncomfortable with your meat analogies, guys.”

 

“I’m doing it.”  Derek’s voice is quiet, but firm.  He leans over the exam table, knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, expression pained but determined.  

 

“The hell you are!”  The statement comes out with more vehemence than Stiles intended, and Derek slides on his bitch face as he turns toward him.  

 

“I’m the Alpha.”  Everyone in the room rolls their eyes. “I’m the oldest.  I have the most experience. I’m doing it, and that’s the end of the discussion.” 

 

Stiles can’t help it, he laughs.  Derek is  _ pissed _ ,  pulling his shoulders back and crossing his arms over his massive chest. “What’s so funny, Stiles?”

 

Stiles waves his hand in a gesture encompassing all of Derek’s broody, menacing majesty.  “The most experience? Come on, dude. What’s your lead in? Punching her in the face? You may have more  _ experience _ but there’s no way you can romance her into our trap.”

 

“And  _ you’re _ the king of romance?”  Isaac laughs. Scott looks like he wants to come to Stiles’ defense but he’s got nothing to contribute.   _ Thanks a bunch, Scott. _

 

“What, like it’s hard?  A few kisses, some cuddling, and I can lead her right where we need her.”

 

Derek looks constipated.  “That’s exactly why I have to be the one to do this.  Kisses and cuddling. Physical contact. You can’t—“

 

“You think I can’t do it?” Stiles cuts him off mid-sentence.  Sure, he has very little in the way of sexual experience but he’s a romantic, through and through.  Why doesn’t anyone believe he can seduce the shit out of someone?  _ Rude _ !   

 

“What?  No! That’s not what I was trying to say.  I think I’m—“

 

“You think you’re a better kisser than me?”  Every eye in the room swivels to Stiles. He can feel the weight of their incredulous stares.  Derek’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “You think you’re a better cuddler than me?”

 

Stiles glances over his shoulder at Isaac, and at Scott, who are wearing matching disbelieving expressions.   _ Fuck it, _ he thinks, never one to back down from a challenge, especially one that can end this inane debate.  He’s all in _.   _

 

“Come over here and prove it, punk.”  He pops the p, staring Derek down with a knowing smirk.  No way Derek will take the bait. 

 

There’s a pregnant pause, during which Stiles starts to prematurely celebrate his victory.  It’s the perfect end to the argument. The succubus won’t expect an ambush from a mere human. Scott will stay safe, (which—let’s be honest— is Stiles’ ultimate goal) and so will the Alpha, in turn keeping the pack out of serious danger.  It will be an in and out job, no pun intended.

 

His celebration is cut short, however, as he watches the expression on Derek’s face transform into something he’s never seen before.  Something that makes his blood run  _ hot _ .  He’s seen Derek flirt with people before; the exaggerated chummy smiles and fake laughs.  There is none of that now. He looks like he’s a seeing a free meal or a rare, mint condition Batman comic or whatever the hell Derek Hale wants most in the world but the bottom line is he’s looking at  _ Stiles _ like that _ ,  _ like he’s valuable and  _ delicious _ . 

 

Derek’s eyelashes lower a fraction, making him look a little sleepy, as if he’s just rolled over in bed and happily found Stiles lying next to him.  “Hey,” he says, voice gone deep and low, a rumble—a purr!— as he slowly steps forward with predatory grace. Stiles’ heartbeat spikes dangerously and his breath gets lost somewhere in his lungs as Derek stalks into Stiles’ personal space, until there is a hair's breadth of space between their chests.  There’s nowhere for Stiles to go, even if he wanted to escape; his ass is pressed into the cabinets mounted to the wall of the exam room. He’s trapped by the look on Derek’s gorgeous face. It’s all very sexy and confusing in his brain (and also in his pants). 

 

Derek’s massive arms come up slow, one sneaking up to his shoulder while the other slides to his waist and around his lower back, pulling them together and  _ oh shit oh shit their groins are pressing together what is happening.   _ Derek leans his head in and down, and Stiles has never understood the need to submit that seems to be ingrained in the pack’s DNA as soon as the bite takes, but he gets it  _ now _ , dropping his head to the side and allowing Derek’s hand to travel up the side of his exposed neck, fingertips tickling the tendons on their way to the back of his head, where they twist in his hair and  _ tug _ .

 

Derek rubs the tip of his nose gently against Stiles’ cheek, takes a deep breath and dips his mouth down, grabbing Stiles’ plump lower lip between his teeth.  The teeth are human, but there is a hint of sharpness to them that stings, making Stiles whimper, and Derek’s tongue soothingly swipes the abused skin. 

 

He pulls away, only to wrap his arms fully around Stiles and haul them together, impossibly close. Derek is all hard muscle but his strength is soft , calming and comforting, and Stiles  _ melts _ against him, clinging to him and emitting a groan of happiness as he buries his face into Derek’s neck.  He could seriously stay wrapped up in Derek’s embrace all day.

 

Scott loudly clears his throat and only then does Stiles remember that there are other people in the room.  He backs out of Derek’s arms and  _ oh my god _ Derek’s shit-eating grin is priceless.  

 

“Okay fine, asshole,” Stiles begrudgingly admits.  “You’re better.” Isaac’s making a face like he sucked on a lemon, and Scott looks like he might barf.

 

“Told you,” Derek flaunts, but his grin softens just the tiniest bit as he holds his gaze, and Stiles’ heart turns over in his chest.

 

_ Uh oh. _

 


	5. “I always thought I’d get married for true love, or because I was wasted.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Drabble Prompt by [allourheroes](http://allourheroes.tumblr.com/) for the dialog: “I always thought I’d get married for true love, or because I was wasted.”
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: Danny Mahealani, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, fake married, double drabble

“I always thought I’d get married for true love—” Danny watched Stilinski laugh morosely as he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s—“or because I was wasted.” He tossed the pen on top the contract Danny had spent hours forging, glanced around the dimly lit office. “A midnight shotgun wedding never featured into my fantasies.”

“It isn’t real,” Derek Hale grumbled, scratching his own name on the marriage license before stomping behind Stiles. “And it’s our best chance.” To this day, Danny was still half terrified and half aroused by the dangerously handsome werewolf. He didn’t know why they needed to pretend to be married, and as a rule Danny didn’t ask. Ignorance was bliss.

“I know,” Stiles whispered wistfully, running the tip of his index finger lightly over Derek’s drying name. Derek reached a hand toward the back of Stiles’ neck, but pulled away at the last second, never making contact. Neither man saw the other’s actions, but Danny saw everything; the longing written in permanent ink across both their faces. 

As they stole into the night on their mysterious errand, Danny couldn’t help but snark, “See ya, Miguel.” Derek growled at him, and then they were gone.


	6. Pillowfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterekshaven who wanted Sterek + Pillow/Blanket fort
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: Blanket fort, thunderstorms, PTSD

There’ve been innumerable atrocities over the years that could haunt his husband: fire, death, monsters and more. Stiles still rails against the worst of them. But despite the demons Derek’s faced down, what makes him shake and shudder is thunder. A simple, intrinsic fear, in spite of all the nuanced nightmares; the irony breaks Stiles’ heart.

So now when it happens, Stiles drags every blanket and pillow they own into the living room, piles couch cushions on the floor, assembling a fabric fortress to keep the fear at bay. And then he huddles close to Derek until the shivers subside.


	7. Like Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For allourheroes on tumblr, who requested a double drabble of Sterek from an outsider's POV. 
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: Jackson Whittemore, Future Fic, Secret Relationship, extended metaphor, double drabble
> 
> This fits into my Sterek Reverse Bang 2018 fic, [What the World Needs Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127286/chapters/35076239), where Jackson was much less of a dick.

Tonight, everything becomes clear to Jackson.

 

Malia’s playing hostess, power coiled tight beneath her skin.  Scott shoulders the weight of leadership with a sunny smile. Lydia’s beauty has grown more fierce, and Isaac holds his head high.  They are mature versions of themselves, superimposed over teenagers who grew up too fast. Their youthful light is still visible, but it’s muted under a cloudy canvas.  

 

Except for Stiles.

 

Jackson has seen the grown-up Stiles, knows he exists, but that man is missing tonight.  Something in the torrent of fidgets and fumbles, the way his eyes constantly shift toward the front door, makes Jackson feel like not a day has passed since they tore through the halls of Beacon Hills High.  The reemergence of Stiles’ spastic, whirlwind energy is mystifying. 

 

It isn’t until Derek walks in that the clouds finally part.  Where before there was chaos, now there’s stillness. Jackson watches Stiles’ cheeks stain pink as a sunrise, watches Derek wink at Stiles, quick as lightning.  _ Huh _ .  

 

Stiles is Derek’s anchor; Derek is Stiles’ center.  They’re a perfect storm, with the potential for destruction and rainbows in equal measure. Jackson won’t admit it, but he’s secretly hoping their future will be bright.


	8. King of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Novemberhush who requested a double Drabble for the prompt “king of the Road”
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tag: kid!Stiles, kid!Derek, Jackson Whittemore, Cora Hale, bullying

The community park is five houses down Stiles’, and he feels like a big shot the summer he starts riding his bike there by himself. He and Scott play kickball and baseball and see who can land the highest jump off the swings. It’s heaven, until Jackson Whittemore moves in.

Jackson immediately hates Stiles, Scott and a tomboyish girl named Cora Hale, and soon they’re disinvited from the group games.

“My brother’s gonna kick your ass!” Cora yells.

The next day, Derek Hale rolls up on his bike. Stiles guesses he’s around thirteen, with broad shoulders, glowering eyebrows and...some facial hair?! He grabs Jackson by the collar.

“Leave my sister the hell alone,” he threatens. Derek’s gaze flicks over Scott, settles on Stiles, who can feel himself blush. “You pick on _any_ of these kids, I’ll rip your throat out,” Derek growls.

“Wow!” Scott exclaims that evening, after they’ve spent a blissful, bully-free day in the park. “Derek Hale is the shining knight of Woodbine Lane.”

But Stiles disagrees. The way Derek owned the road on his bike, his confidence, the way he commanded Jackson leave them alone. Derek could never be just a lowly knight. Derek’s the _king_.

 

 

 

 


	9. Dogs of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Onlymorelove, who requested more of [THIS](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/post/178768968507/knit-tender-kiss-1052018-stiles-arms) drabble. There’s not a lot, and hopefully I’ll get back to it, but it feels like it could get loooong and I need to do NaNoWrMo. I hope you like it! They will def do it in the dirt trust me :-) 
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: War, Blood, Violence

Stiles had seen three wars in his twenty years; the first claimed his mother when he was eight, his father had ridden off to the second four years prior and never returned, and the third was currently blowing a hole through the poorly fortified wall of his city, letting in half-starved, half-crazed troops bent on pillage and punishment.

For weeks, rumors and hysteria jumped from man to man like hungry fleas, fantastical tales of an army headed toward them, ranks swelled by monsterous, supernatural beings; half men and half beasts. And of their commander, a man named Argent, renown for his savagery, who had these creatures in his thrall.

When they’d arrived, the promise of death glinting off their polished shields in the moonlight, Stiles had been underwhelmed. They were merely men, albeit filthy, stinking men with their clothes half rotted off. They raised their swords, mouths open like the black pits of hell as they howled, movements jerky and wild.

“See you on the other side, brother,” Scott whispered to him as they coated their blades with dirt. Since the deaths of both their parents, Stiles and Scott were all each other had. Stiles did not know if Scott meant the other side of battle, or death, and he didn’t ask.

The fighting got fiercer as dawn came, and a great fog rolled in from behind the enemy lines, shrouding their attackers like ghosts in the mist. Stiles had always appeared unassuming; gangly, young, not a threat. It was one of his greatest assets in life and war. Enemies assumed he was weak, and often passed him by for larger foes they deemed more dangerous. It was when they turned their backs, let their guard down, that Stiles attacked, swift and sudden and deadly. His body count rose with the sun as one by one, the invaders fell beneath his hand.

Then finally, at midday, a worthy adversary stepped forward.

Stiles’ arms screamed, muscles tender and abused from hours at battle. The opponent before him now was ruthless, strong as ten men and as beautiful as a hundred.

Stiles lunged forward and lashed at the warrior’s leg, opening a shallow cut on his upper thigh. The bloom of red made his heart sing. But his enemy’s wound began to heal, skin knitting together before his eyes.

“Are you the devil?” Stiles whispered, terrified and captivated.

His enemy’s blade kissed his throat in seconds. “Surrender,” the beautiful demon demanded.

Stiles smiled, teeth stained with blood. He never could follow orders. “No.”

“Have it your way,” the demon snarled, and smashed the hilt of his sword into Stiles’ temple.

The world went went black and so, so quiet.

———

Stiles woke on hard packed dirt inside a large tent, with a beautiful dark-haired woman peering into his face. “Derek, he’s alive,” she said, indifferent.

“I told you I didn’t hit him _that_ hard.”

Stiles turned his head toward the voice, calmer and softer now than it had been on the battlefield. His vision swam and his stomach threatened to empty onto the ground, but through squinted eyes he saw the handsome demon sitting at a makeshift table next to another alluring woman. If he was dead, then everyone in hell was attractive.

“He’s a pretty thing, once we washed all the blood off,” the woman at the table said, tilting her head to one side, then the other, studying him. The movement reminded Stiles of an inquisitive puppy.

“Pretty useless,” the girl above him said, prodding him in the side. “We should just kill him.”

“No, Cora.” The demon and the woman at the table spoke as one.

“It’d be kinder,” Cora grumbled. “Argent has nothing good planned for him.” She turned hostile eyes on the demon. “Wouldn’t you agree, Derek?”

Just then a soldier appeared at the tent flap and stared at the demon with fear and disgust in his eyes. The two women stiffened, their lips pulling back from their teeth in ugly snarls. The demon glared back, eyes flashing blue. “What?” He barked.

“She’s summoning you,” the frightened soldier squeaked, and disappeared from the entryway. Derek stood from the table with a sigh, shoulders slumped, and made for the flap of the tent.

“You’d leave the women unprotected here with me, demon?” His voice was scratchy and hoarse, but the demon paused and looked back at him. “I could kill them, monster, and escape from your evil clutches.”

The woman seated at the table slowly turned toward him, the intruding soldier forgotten, and tilted her head again. “Demon? What on earth is he babbling about? How hard did you hit him, Derek?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “He saw my wounds heal, so he thinks I’m the devil.”

Cora laughed, kicking Stiles in the shin. “My brother is not the devil, boy, nor a beast. He’s just a puppy with a cruel master. Show him a gentle hand and he’ll be faithful forever.”

Stiles looked back toward Derek, but he was already gone. “If you think him the devil,” the woman at the table said as she rose to her feet, “you’re in for quite a shock.” Before his eyes, her features morphed, her eyes glowed red and her teeth elongated and sharpened. “We’re not demons, we're wolves.  And we’re your best hope for survival.”

———

A few hours later Derek returned to the tent. His sisters—Laura, the elder and Cora, the younger, Stiles learned— avoided looking at him as he dragged himself to a cot at the back of the tent, but they kept sharing concerned glances between themselves. He tried to stay vigilant, but Stiles must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew Derek was shaking him awake.

“We ride for the next battle,” he said, solemnly. “I’ll bring you on my horse.”

“Why am I here, and not dead on the field?” Stiles asked. He'd tried asking the she-wolves, but after Derek’s departure they’d been strangely quiet, and refused to answer.

“You’re Gerard Argent’s prisoner of war,” Derek said, dragging him to his feet and pushing him from the tent into the early morning mist. With one arm he hoisted Stiles onto a black steed and mounted it behind him, bracketing Stiles with powerful thighs as he wrapped his large hands around the reigns.

“Yes, I get that. What I want to know is _why_?” The battlefield had been littered with bodies.  Why was Stiles spared? “I am no one important.”

Derek urged their horse into a gallop. “You’re Scott McCall’s best friend. The only family he has.”

Stiles leaned his back against Derek’s broad chest, tipping his head onto Derek’s shoulder to hear him over the rushing wind. “Scott?! Is he alive?” Stiles’ heart started to race faster than the animal sprinting under him.

“Scott’s alive,” Derek spoke into Stiles’ right ear, and Stiles felt himself shiver as Derek’s lips accidentally brushed against his skin. “And if you’re alive, then Gerard Argent can control him."


	10. We’ve got some work to do now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterek Week Day 1: Scooby Wolf  
> Rating: G  
> Tags: blood, Drabble, 100 words

The hunter struggles in vain against the knots Isaac tied. She glares at Derek from the chair she’s bound to, challenging. “I’d have gotten away with everything if it weren’t for you and those meddlesome kids.”

Stiles hums the Scooby-Doo theme song off-key as Erica stitches up a shallow knife wound on his thigh. Scott, Jackson and Boyd scramble around cleaning blood and staging the warehouse to look like they were never there. It’s taken them months to capture this hunter, and they’d never have done it without working together.

“They’re not kids,” Derek says with pride. “They’re my pack.”


	11. Lyrics & Quotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterek Week 2018 Day 2: Lyrics & Quotes
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: Sterek Week, Drabble, marriage, based on a quote

**The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost.**  - _Gilbert K. Chesterton_

 

Stiles slides a silver band onto Derek’s ring finger. “I’ll never squander what’s in limited supply, and cherish what cannot be replaced. I’ll never presume what we value we’ll always possess, but will value what’s priceless. And above all, I’ll love what we have now, as if it might be lost.”

The officiant smiles. “I’m honored to present this couple who’ve committed to each for the rest of their lives. Derek and Stiles, go forth and live each day to the fullest.”

Their loved ones cheer as Derek captures his mouth in a sweet kiss that tastes like a promise. 


	12. knockin’ on heaven’s door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterek Week 2018 Day 3: Vampires
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: vampire!Stiles, blood, violence, double Drabble, 200 words

It was the preternatural stillness that caught Derek’s eye.

Among the chaos of swinging knives and swiping claws, he stood in the shadows, head cocked as if listening. None of the hunters even knew he was there, relentlessly coming at Derek over and over until there was only one left standing. The only reason Derek noticed him at all was the absence of sound. Around him was a cacophony of hammering heartbeats, grunts of exertion, and tearing flesh, except for the pocket of silence in the dark, more sinister than the symphony of death ringing in his ears.

With a final slash of his claws the last hunter fell, and the shadow stepped forward, gracefully moving over the dead bodies, eyes red as blood. _Alpha red_ , Derek thought as he looked at the deceptively young face.

“Hello, Pup.” His low, rumbling voice was practically a purr, and Derek racked his brain, desperately trying to recall any tidbit his mother had told him about vampires. But every thought flew out of his head when the creature walked up to him, placed a cool hand on the back of his neck and whispered, “We’re going to make a pretty good pair.”


	13. Home Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterek Week Day 4: Alternate Canon
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: bisexuality, terrible baseball metaphors, use of canon dialog, Alternate Canon, Danny

“Uh, Stiles?”

Stiles spins around in his desk chair to find Derek shirtless, smooth chest and narrow waist on display. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Danny do a double take. “Yes?”

Derek snaps a t-shirt between his hands; the seams scream in protest. “This? No fit.”

“Then try something else on.” Derek angrily pulls a hideous blue and orange striped shirt Stiles has owned since middle school over his head. It fits him like baloney skin, but Derek somehow still manages to look mouthwatering. “Hey! That one looks pretty good. What do you think, Danny?”

Danny’s eyes are glued to Derek’s pecs and abs, which are seconds away from bursting out of their cotton prison. “It’s… it’s not really his color.” Derek reaches behind him, whips off the shirt in a graceful maneuver that showcases every incredible inch of skin, and Stiles smirks as Danny turns red.

“You swing for a different team, but you still play ball, don’t you, Danny boy?”

Danny bares his teeth at Stiles. “You’re a horrible person. And while we’re making terrible baseball analogies, don’t think I don’t know you like to _catch_ as much as you like to _pitch_. Don’t pretend that was solely for my benefit, Stilinski.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to blush, because with his werewolf hearing, there’s no way Derek missed that revelation.

He sneaks a glance over his shoulder, finds Derek, still shirtless, staring curiously at him. His breath catches and his heart rabbits in his chest, and he swears Derek starts to smile before he turns away to rummage through Stiles drawers some more. Jesus, the dude has back dimples. Stiles would pitch, catch, umpire, play shortstop, or do just about anything to slide into home with a dude like Derek Hale.

Yeah, Stiles is definitely bisexual.


	14. The roomate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon on tumblr who asked: "Awehhh yessss~ Okay so, Derek visits Stiles at college just in time to see him investigating another supernatural creature... said supernatural creature is Stiles roommate... AHAHA"
> 
> Rating: M (for some language)  
> Tags: swearing, blood, Kishi (demon), college, underage drinking

“It’s family weekend.  Are you  _ sure _ you don’t want quality time with your Dad, without me interfering?” Derek asks.  He selfishly hopes Stiles tells him to come, but he doesn’t want to impose on their first family visit since Stiles went away to college.  

 

“No way, dude!  I haven’t seen you in six weeks.  I’m  _ dying _ from lack of sex.”  Stiles is two hundred miles away but Derek feels like he’s right there inside his dorm room, watching him dramatically fling the back of his hand over his forehead, like a swooning Victorian maiden.

 

“It makes me uncomfortable how easily you segued from talking about your dad to talking about sex.” 

 

“You love it.  And you miss me, don’t lie.

 

“Yeah, I guess I miss you.”

 

“Told you!  And, for the record, I miss you too.  So you’re coming out, right? Pleeeeeaaaasssseee?”

 

Derek laughs.  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

 

*****

 

It’s a two and a half hour drive to get to Stiles’ campus, and Derek’s not going to lie, he can’t wait to see his boyfriend.  He’s excited to tour the campus, hear more about his classes, and put faces to the new names Stiles has been chatting about. But yeah, Stiles is right; they’re both dying from lack of sex.  The thought of bending Stiles over the first available surface has Derek wanting to pull over and rub one out, but he’s an adult, so he gives his dick a pep talk about how good things come to those who wait.  

 

When he gets there, he joins Stiles and his father for lunch and a walking tour that turns into an afternoon of sightseeing, and then dinner.  By the time they’re back to the dorm room, bidding John goodnight, Derek is ready to burst. He turns to pounce on Stiles as soon as the door shuts behind the sheriff, and Stiles opens his gorgeously large mouth.  He’s a talker, so Derek expects to hear any manner of filthy innuendo fall from those lips, but instead he says, “Holy shit dude I’m like ninety-seven percent sure my roommate is a Kishi!”

 

There goes Derek’s boner.

 

*****

 

So much for sex.  

 

Derek finds himself decked out in all black, miserable, parked down the street from a raging frat party. 

 

“Yes, all black  _ is _ the required uniform when on a stake-out Derek.  You’re practically goth with all the leather and the resting bitch face; you’d think there’d be less complaining.”

 

His roommate, Keven, is an exchange student from Angola at the University with a full basketball scholarship, and according to Stiles, he has never—“Not once Derek, I swear to God!”—removed his beanie. 

 

Derek watches a dudebro stumble off the porch and projectile vomit into a shrub.  “This seems like a huge waste of time because one guy hasn’t removed his hat in your presence.”

 

Stiles throws out his arms, smacking Derek in the chest.  “He wears it to bed!”

 

“Maybe he’s cold.”

 

Stiles pouts.  “We live in California!  I’ve done my research. Two female students have disappeared since the end of August.  Supposedly they dropped out, but neither mentioned leaving to their roommates. One day they were there, and the next, poof!  Vanished. All their stuff cleaned out while the roommate was at class. I have my Google News Alert set to notify me if any bodies are found within a four-hundred mile radius.”  Stiles pulls out his phone, checks the screen, scowls at the lack of corpses. “And, Keven means handsome. That’s the demon’s defining characteristic; a good-looking, smooth-talking man who charms women and then eats them.  And  _ not  _ in the good way.”     

 

“Is he?” Derek asks, chest constricting uncomfortably.

 

“Is he what?  Eating them? Yes, that’s why we’re out here.”

 

“No.” Derek grimaces.  “Is he handsome?” Derek hasn’t had a moment of jealousy since Stiles went away.  They love and trust each other. It feels awful even asking.

 

Stiles looks over, gages Derek’s face in the moonlight streaming through the car window.  “Well, yeah. He’s very attractive. But you know my heart only has enough room in it for one supernatural creature, right?”  He wiggles his eyebrows. “And now that I’m subjected to a twin size mattress, my bed’s only big enough for you, too.” 

 

Derek groans.  “If we ever make it into a bed.”  The words have no more fallen from his mouth when Stiles bolts up in his seat.  He points to a tall man wearing a beanie walking down the stairs of the frat house, a petite blonde girl draped on his arm.

 

“That’s Keven,” Stiles hisses.  “Quick, let’s follow him!”

 

Derek unbuckles his seat belt and reaches for the door handle.  “If I get arrested for stalking because of you, you owe me unlimited blowjobs for life.”

 

*****

 

Keven makes it two blocks and down a dark alleyway, practically carrying the drunk co-ed, before pulling off his hat and, damn it, Derek  _ really _ hates it when Stiles is right.

 

“Don’t let him bite you!” Stiles yells from the mouth of the alley.  He’s rummaging around in a dumpster, searching for a weapon as Derek wrestles with the Kishi, whose hyena face is snarling into Derek’s own, snapping sharp teeth centimeters away from his nose.  They roll across the wet, dirty pavement, fighting for superiority. He wraps both hands around the Kishi’s thick neck, squeezing hard, leaving his own body open to vicious kicks and pounding punches.  Blood is in Derek’s mouth. It tastes like victory. 

 

The Kishi’s yellow eyes start to bulge.  It viciously sinks claws into Derek’s side, ripping open a wound with its nails.   Just when Derek thinks he will need to let go, stop it from tearing into him further, Stiles lets out a loud cry, smashing a broken bottle over the demon’s head.  Glass shards spray over Derek. The Kishi turns its animal face toward Stiles, snarling. Derek takes advantage of its distraction to slice a claw across its throat.  The Kishi falls to the pavement.

 

“Shit shit shit,” Stiles chants, digging a shaking hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a book of matches and small bag of mountain ash.  He pours the powder over the Kishi’s body, drags the red head along the striker strip and drops the lit match, engulfing the demon in flames. “Guess I’ll be living in a single now.”

 

“Fantastic.  We can finally have sex.”

 

Stiles laughs, a little too loud and slightly manic.  They turn toward the sorority sister passed out against the brick wall.  “Let’s get her home.”

 

*****

 

Derek learns a lot at college.  Communal showers are gross, and dining hall food sucks.  The supernatural shit show doesn’t take an intermission just because your boyfriend is away at school. Oh, and twin beds really  _ are _ small.  But it’s okay, he and Stiles make it work.

 

They always do.


	15. Gone with the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sterek Week 2018 Day 5: Scene Stealer
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: scene stealer, based on Gone with the Wind, tw:Kate Argent

“Now, you wait right here, Derek Hale, until I get back.  I want to eat barbecue with you, talk some about  _ cooperation _ between our families.”  Kate Argent smiles, lips blood red with charming dimples on each side.  What a woman in her twenties wants to talk about with Derek, a teenager and second-in-line to be Alpha, he doesn’t want to think about.  He’ll think about it later. Derek shifts from foot to foot, feeling like a calf waiting for the butcher, but unwilling to be rude and ruin the fragile truce the werewolves have with the hunters.

 

“I won’t,” he finally manages to breathe.  

 

Kate runs a finger lightly up his arm, making him shiver unpleasantly, and turns to start up the stairs, sashaying her hips.  She wants him to watch, but that’s when Derek’s eyes fall again on the guy named Stiles Stilinski, who’s come to the Hale House as the guest of the True Alpha, Scott McCall.  He’s staring at Kate in a cool, impertinent way. Evidently he’d heard the whole conversation, for he quickly latches eyes with Derek, standing dumbly at the bottom of the wide staircase, and he grins like a tomcat.  There’s recklessness in his face and cynical humor in his wide, generous mouth. 

 

Stilinski’s warm amber eyes glide down his body appreciatively, totally devoid of the deference he’s accustomed to as the son of the Alpha.  Derek’s caught between between feeling like he should be annoyed at such a blatant look, but finds he’s not insulted at all. He’s excited.

 

“Good grief,” he says to himself, using his mother’s favorite oath.  “He looks like… like he knows exactly what I look like in my skivvies.”

 

Stilinski wanders over, stopping in front of Derek.  “Have you ever heard the saying, no sacrifice is too great for the cause?”  Derek looks at him, startled and a little miffed. Does this guy think  _ that’s _ an appropriate greeting?  What the hell does he want?  He leans into Derek’s personal space, and whispers theatrically.  “That saying is bullshit.  _ That _ —“ he points up the stairs, where Kate is descending like a Queen, like she  _ owns _ Derek’s home.  It makes his hackles rise.  “That,” Stiles continues, “is a sacrifice I simply cannot allow you to make.”

 

He grabs Derek’s hand, in full view of everyone at the party his parents have painstakingly planned.  Kate comes to a halt on the stair in front of them, looming, as Stiles demands, “Dance with me.”

 

Kate laughs, an ugly sound.  Oh god, he can’t. His parents will be so embarrassed if he makes a spectacle of himself.  Kate Argent will be angry. His sisters will gossip about him forever. But does he really care, deep down in his heart?  “Is this a joke? Derek will not—“

 

Derek hears a voice which, at first, he doesn’t recognize as his own.  “Yes, I will.” 

 

Stiles is leading him away, slipping a bold arm around his waist, and Derek has never in his life felt so free.  


	16. Holy War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discord Challenge for a double drabble written for any song by the band Rainbow Kitten Surprise. I chose Holy War.
> 
> Rating: M  
> Tags: priest!kink, sexual content

The motel room was sleazy, but lit by the golden glow of so many candles, it looked as ethereal as the seminary chapel they’d sat in earlier that day.  In the tender light, Stiles’ pale, mole-speckled skin seemed translucent under Derek’s roaming hands. They fumbled and rolled across the bed, clumsy at first, but as the night wore on their love-making flowed from one pleasurable act to the next as naturally and beautifully as the parts of Mass.  They’d long since closed their eyes, lost in each other’s gratification and their own, but when Derek pulled up his legs, guiding Stiles inside him, their gazes locked. 

 

Star crossed from first sight, fighting their attraction had been a war they could never win.  But sinking into Derek didn’t feel evil. It didn’t feel like losing at all. 

 

“What next?” Stiles asked the next morning as the rising sun splintered through the window, raining warmth over their bed.  Neither could be ordained now that they knew the kingdom of heaven could be found in an interstate motel room. Turned out some revelations weren’t granted by a higher power, they had to be found out by themselves.

 

“We move forward,” Derek answered.  “Together.”


	17. Shaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a discord challenge for sterek shaving.
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: shaving, submissive Stiles, mild sexual content, language

When an orge breaks Stiles’ arm in three places, he learns that using a fork left-handed is hard, shaving is impossible, and jerking off is surprisingly easy to adjust to.  It’s also why he’s sitting on the edge of his bathtub with Derek looming over him, wielding a razor. 

 

Derek’s strong fingers map the curves of Stiles’ face, wetting the wiry whiskers sprouting on his cheeks, heating the skin underneath as cool metal glides down to his jaw.  Stiles expects alarm or panic when Derek’s blade touches the thin tissue of his neck, but feels only a low thrum of awareness resonating from his groin. Maybe he’s a masochist, because with a flick of his wrist Derek could slice him open, but Stiles isn’t scared.  Instead, it feels natural to lift his chin, go plaint, inviting Derek to run what’s essentially a weapon along the delicate skin. 

 

Derek pauses, breath catching.  “You trust me.” He holds Stiles’ face in place as he slides the blade, thumb resting over his fluttering pulse.

 

“I trust you,” Stiles confesses, purposely tilting his head back and exposing his throat.   _ Submitting _ .   

 

Derek replaces the newly shorn hairs with his tongue, and Stiles closes his eyes.


	18. To chase the glowing hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Novemberhush <3\. 
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: prom, dancing, fluff
> 
> When Lydia Martin, veritable goddess, tells Stiles to escort her to senior prom, he goes. It’s not like Stiles had someone else in mind to ask.
> 
> Right?

When Lydia Martin, veritable goddess, tells Stiles to escort her to senior prom, he goes. It doesn’t matter that her on-again off-again relationship with Jackson, captain of the lacrosse team, is currently off-again, and she only wants a date to piss him off. It’s not like Stiles had someone else in mind to ask.

 _Right_?

So here he is, haunting the punch bowl and Lydia’s side, occasionally cutting a rug on the vinyl dance floor. Lydia is angelic in a lilac dress that flirts with her knees, red locks swept up in a braided crown. She’s smiled at him six times so far, and leaned close to whisper a heartfelt, “thank you for coming, Stiles.” He’s the luckiest guy in California. He shouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her.

But he does.

There _he_ is, casually leaning over a chair back as he chats with Erica and Boyd, tux jacket already discarded and shirt-buttons popped on top. God, Derek Hale looks good enough to eat. There’s a hint of stubble playing at the line of Derek’s square jaw, and the stripe of his tuxedo pants looks obscene running down Derek’s thigh. Stiles glances around the vicinity, but sees no obvious date hovering nearby. It’s impossible to hear what the trio are saying over the thrumming beat, but Derek looks content, handsome and relaxed. It makes something behind Stiles’ ribs thump painfully.

Just as Stiles is about to start drooling, Derek looks over, catches Stiles’ eye.

 _Oh shit._ Look away. _Act cool, Stilinski._

The problem is, Stiles is decidedly uncool, but that fact has never seemed to bother Derek. Derek’s been a fixture in Stiles’ life the last four years, when two middle schools and a private school poured into the melting pot that is Beacon Hills High. Their eclectic companions gravitated toward each other, assimilating into what is now their heterogeneous pack. Derek and Stiles, thrown together by fate and friends, soon found each other. It wasn’t always positive. But it’s become permanent.

Stiles desperately tunes back into Lydia’s conversation with Allison and Kira, her two popular girlfriends, smiling politely. He forces a stilted, ill-timed laugh to cover his distraction, but all it gets him is peculiar stares through mascara-thick eyelashes. He sips his drink, clear plastic cup his shield and armor against the world.

Since that fateful and somewhat baffling afternoon in the cafeteria three weeks ago when Lydia marched up to his lunch table in her Gucci heels— _”You’re taking me to prom, get a tux and pick me up at eight”_ —Stiles has barely thought about how close he came to throwing caution to the wind and actually asking Derek. But he’d dithered, unsure of Derek’s feelings and unwilling to ruin their friendship. He’s still not thinking about it now when out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek straighten, heading toward his little posse with purpose.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lydia asks, seeing Stiles begin to twitch more than normal.

He lowers his cups, raises it, lowers it again. With each change in longitude Lydia’s eyebrows climb higher on her forehead. “What? Ah… nothing. Everything’s fine.” Stiles pastes on a manic smile.

There’s a lot Stiles admires about Lydia Martin, but he’s always found her eyes most alluring. While the rest of her is deceptively soft, Lydia’s eyes are hard and calculating. They’re windows to her soul, her intelligence shining out bright, clear and warm. She turns those shrewd eyes on Derek now.

“Evening, everyone. Ladies, you look beautiful tonight.” Derek shifts his weight from leg to leg, shoving his hands into his pockets. Lydia hums, lips pursed as she evaluates the fidgets. Her friends smooth silky strands of hair behind their ears and smile becomingly. Chances are, Derek is here to ask one of them to dance. Stiles squeezes his flimsy punch cup so tightly the sides crack, and bright red punch leaks over his stiff fingers.

Derek turns his attention to Lydia. “Do you mind if I steal your date for one dance?” It takes his overactive brain a moment to catch up. Derek wants to dance… with _Stiles_?

Lydia turns her attention to Stiles, graces him with smile number seven. “I think he’s already yours.”

“Stiles?” Derek’s eyes search his flushed face. He holds out his hand. “Will you dance with me?”

He will.

Hand in hand they make their way through a swarm of swaying hips and shuffling feet. As soon as they’re centered under the disco lights, Derek’s hands are at his hips, pulling Stiles in as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck.

“I hope this is all right,” Derek says, one hand sliding to the small of Stiles’ back, fingers grasping the damp cotton. “I know you’re here with Lydia and she’s who you’ve always wanted but I—“

“Derek, stop,” Stiles commands. Derek stops talking, but he also stops dancing. They’re motionless on the dancefloor, wrapped around each other. “ _You’re_ the person I wanted to go with,” Stiles whispers.

And now that the truth is spoken into the sliver of space between them, it all comes pouring out of Stiles like a river. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Derek. Maybe I always liked you. But I was too chicken to ask. And then when Lydia came up to me, I got so caught up—“

“Stiles.” Derek smiles, all dimples and pearly white teeth. “All of that? Me too.”

Stiles slips long, sticky fingers into the soft hairs at the nape of Derek’s neck. He closes the last few centimeters between their bodies, risking the wrath of every chaperone in the room. “In that case, ah… wanna go to prom with me?”

It’s a little backwards, and a lot ridiculous, but, based on Derek’s goofy grin, Stiles has a feeling he’s going to say yes.

———————  
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;  
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet  
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.  
~George Gordon

 

 


	19. Pickle juice (omg I suck at titles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M (for language and some light sexual content)
> 
> Tags: arguments, supernatural strength, married!Sterek, working out, Mason Hewitt
> 
> For @evanesdust who prompted me with: ... i read something somewhere once about how this persons grandfather told them about when the grandma gets mad at him, he tightens the pickle jar lid so that she'll have to talk to him and in my head i see sterek... hook me up??? stiles is pissed at derek and derek does whatever he can to get stiles to talk to him...

As Mason orders his typical post-workout smoothie, Stiles valiantly fights a grimace, and loses. He’s 99.9 percent sure drinking something so green, when it’s not a shamrock shake from McDonalds, is illegal and punishable by death. Stiles rattles off his usual strawberry-peach-banana combo, and they fall into the uncomfortable art-deco chairs at the juice bar.

“Sixty days, man!” Mason crows, tapping the rim of his plastic cup against Stiles’. “We are on a freakin’ roll. You feeling stronger? I know I am.”

Mason’s a superb gym buddy. Aside from the fact they are the only two human members of the pack, they have a lot in common. They’re similar in body type, so they can easily spot each other during workouts. Both naturally curious individuals, their conversation between sets flows effortlessly from rare books, research and possession, to the pros and cons of having a werewolf best friend. They’re both in love with supernatural creatures.

It’s like they’re the same person, if Stiles were a gay black man.  
  
Stiles does _feel_ stronger. He _looks_ stronger. Derek’s been admiring the cut of his shoulders and biceps when Stiles dresses for work in the morning, eyes and mouth appreciating the hint—and due to his curly fry addiction, it will forever remain only a hint—of definition in his abs and Adonis belt. Stiles can do a dozen pull ups now, for Christ’s sake.

  
“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles replies through his teeth as he gnaws on the end of his straw. “There’s just... one little problem.”

Some days, he can’t open a friggin’ pickle jar.

Mason sets down his drink, and gives Stiles his full attention at the declaration. “What?”

“It’s insane, dude. I have no idea what the hell is going on! I even bought one of those hand worker-outer thingies.” Stiles curls his fingers, makes grabby hands in front of Mason’s confused face.

“You mean a grip strengthener?” Mason asks, brow furrowed.

“Yeah. Like I said, a hand worker-outer thingy. I use it, like, six times a day. I’m telling you, if I do it anymore my hands will be so strong”— he lowers his voice, mimes jerking off under the counter—“I might break Derek's dick off. Or worse, my own.”

The barista behind the counter squints menacingly at him, so he places his hands back on the countertop, digits encircling his frosty drink. “It doesn’t always happen, but sometimes I still can’t open stuff. It’s so weird.”

Mason squints. “What do you do when you can’t open things?”

“Derek opens them for me.” Stiles feels zero shame in the admission. He’s dating a super buff werewolf; he’d be an idiot not to put Derek’s bulging muscles to work.

Mason is quiet, biting at his full bottom lip. Stiles assumes he’s deep in thought, until he spots a grin trying to peek out from behind the curtain of white teeth.

“What’s so funny?” Stiles asks.

The smile comes out to play. “It’s Derek.”

At first Stiles thinks he means Derek has physically walked into the cafe, and glances around, but he quickly realizes his mistake.

“Wait… what? No! Derek would never.”

“Think, Stiles,” Mason prompts, leaning over the counter. “You said it doesn’t always happen, right? What was the last thing you couldn’t open?”

“Last weekend I couldn’t open the green olives. Hey, isn’t it weird green olives come in a jar but black olives come in a can? I wonder why…” He reaches for his phone.

Mason smack his hand. “Focus. By any chance did you and Derek get into a fight before you couldn’t open the olives?”

Oh, _shit_. Stiles burned the grilled cheese, and when Derek had tried to offer unsolicited, unhelpful advice, Stiles had thrown a spatula and ordered Derek out of the kitchen. That night, his salty midnight snack was foiled by a too-tight top. A few weeks ago, Stiles had made fun of Derek’s boxers because they had tiny wolves on them, and his tortilla chips went salsa-less. A month and a half ago his BLT was dry because he couldn’t get the mayo cap unscrewed after he and Derek loudly disagreed on a paint color for the bathroom.

“Corey does the same thing to me, so I’ll quit giving him the silent treatment when we argue. Oh, and black olives come in jars, too. The ones in cans are artificially ripened.” Mason sips his green concoction and watches realization dawn across Stiles’ face. “Mystery solved.”

+++++

Stiles stalks into their house like he’s the predator. “Damn it, Derek! I know what you’ve been doing!”

Derek lowers the volume on the television and raises a bushy eyebrow. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The pickles! The pickles, Derek!” Stiles flails his arms. “How could you? You know I love pickles!”

“Stiles, what the f—”

“You’ve been tightening all the jars so I’ll have to talk to you after we fight!”

Derek blinks, eyes wide and innocent, and leans back into the leather couch cushions. “Does that seem like something I’d do?”

“Uh, yeah!” Stiles squawks. “You’re almost as big of an asshole as I am, and that’s totally something I’d do if I’d thought of it first. Admit it, Derek.”

Derek smiles, the self-satisfied smile of someone who thinks he’s won. “Never.”

Stiles’ fists dig into his hips. “Fine. But you get none of this”—he motions up and down his own body— “until you admit I’m right.”

“So, to be clear, we’re arguing about how we argue?” Derek deadpans.

“Damn right we are.”

Derek unmutes the tv and turns back to his cooking show. “You won’t last three days.”

Stiles huffs. _We’ll see about that._

+++++

He _so_ could have lasted three days, except on day two Derek went out for a run in the preserve and Stiles knew he had at least forty-five minutes of alone time, so he flung off his pants and flopped into bed, grabbing the lube from the nightstand drawer.

Only to find the plastic flip-top cap glued shut and the whole cover screwed so tightly he knows he’ll never get it open.

In his rage, he pulls on his pants and hops down the stairs, bottle clutched firmly in his fist. He shoots into the woods as fast as his legs will carry him, screaming his husband’s name at the top of his lungs.

Derek, barely breathless, silently slides up next to him fifteen minutes later. Stiles shakes the bottle in his face. “How _dare_ you?”

Derek has the audacity to laugh at Stiles’ pain. “Is this any worse than you not speaking to me when I put the toilet paper roll on the ‘wrong way’?” The words are punctuated by bitchy air quotes and a massive eye roll.

“The paper comes over the top, Derek. It’s science.”

“Or how we almost got divorced because you insisted the person who takes out the trash shouldn’t have to replace the garbage bag in the can?”

“That’s teamwork!”

“Stiles.” Derek gently takes Stiles’ free hand in his sweaty palm. “We’re married ten years. Can we please agree to solve our problems like adults? No more pettiness, from either side. Truce?”

Stiles’ glare lasts all of ten seconds. “Ugh, fine. Truce. But you should totally make this up to my poor, disappointed dick.” He shoves the sloshing liquid into the middle of Derek’s firm chest. “Now can we please go home?”

Derek smiles, all sharp teeth, and whips his damp grey t-shirt over his unfairly attractive head. “We could walk the half mile back to the house.” Derek’s head cocks in the direction of their home, hidden from sight through the trees. “Or I could make it up to you right here.” He pops a claw, and pierces the lube bottle.

Stiles fumbles for his zipper.

Here works.


	20. Tweak the Algorithm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Tags: Tinder, airport, meet-cute, Cora Hale, Alive Hale family
> 
> For Novemberhush. Based on a tumblr prompt that I will tag later when I’m not on my phone

Stiles’ excitement over booking a cheap, one-way flight from LaGuardia to San Francisco fizzles under the blanket of heavy, wet snow coating the runway. When a tinny voice blares through the PA system, proclaiming a three hour delay, Stiles does what the rest of the stranded flyers do; crashes into an uncomfortable metal chair in the waiting area, seat cushion flattened under the weight of a thousand butts that came before him, and pulls out his phone to kill some time.

Tinder it is.

He’s mindlessly scrolling through photos of locals when one particular guy catches his eye. Black hair, piercing green eyes flecked with gold, artful stubble Stiles can _feel_ scraping deliciously against his lips through the phone. _Damn_. He smiles, a small private thing as his thumb hovers over the handsome image. _If only._

He swipes left.

“Ouch!” Says a sharp feminine voice in the seat next to him. Stiles startles so hard his phone plummets to the cheap worn-down carpet. “A hard no for that one, huh?”

And to Stiles’ absolute amazement, sitting next to him are two of the most attractive people he’s ever seen, one a dark-haired female with sculpted, judgemental eyebrows, and the other is THE DUDE FROM TINDER!

“What the f—“

“Please excuse my sister,” says Hot Tinder Guy. He’s sporting a terrifying scowl, but the pink tips of his ears make Stiles want to swoon. “She’s a nosy pain in the ass.”

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. How can he be so simultaneously confused and turned on? “What is happening?”

“What’s happening is you just shot down my very eligible brother, Derek, via a superficial hookup app.” Her gaze flicks over Stiles’ graphic tee, plaid overshirt, unwashed jeans and worn out sneakers. She sneers. _Rude!_ No one—except the two people in front of him—looks like a supermodel at the airport. Different runway. “He swiped right on you, you know.”

“Wait, for real? Why? My tagline is ‘ _I’m on here trying to date your mom._ ’ You could do _so_ much better.”

“Cora, enough.” Hot Tinder Derek is pulling his sister out of her seat by the elbow. “Leave this guy alone.” He hauls her away. “Let’s get a coffee”

They make it all of four steps —the only reason they get _that_ far is because Stiles falls out of his chair to grab his phone—before the words come rocketing out. “Wait! Stop!”

He’s still on his knees when Derek, Cora, and roughly three-hundred and seventy passengers at the gate turn to look at him. “I only swiped left because I’m not local. I don’t live in New York; I’m from Beacon Hills, California and I’m just here on business. I swear I’m attracted to you! You’re super sexy! I mean…” Stiles gestures to all of Derek. “Look at you! I hesitated before I swiped left.” He points at Cora. “You _saw_ me hesitate, don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. “Actually, we’re f—“ but Stiles cuts her off.

“You are so hot dude, like _burning_ hot. If it wasn’t for the distance, I’d be all up on that. _Hard_.” Stiles winks. “If you know what I mean.”

“We _all_ know what you mean,” grumbles a mother standing at the jet bridge, holding manicured hands over her young son’s ears.

Derek lets go of his sister’s arm and puts down his luggage. He reaches out and grasps Stiles’ hand, pulling him to his feet. “Thanks for the clarification, and please, don’t call me dude. Derek is fine.”

Stiles lets out a huge breath, tension melting from his shoulders. “Nice to meet you, Derek. I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek’s eyes widen. “Are you the Sheriff’s kid?”

Whoa. Are hot people psychic?

Derek laughs. _Oops_. Stiles may have said that last bit out loud. “If you had paused for breath during that very eloquent declaration, Cora would have told you we’re from Beacon Hills, too. We’re just in New York City visiting our sister, Laura.”

Stiles squints at Derek. “Then why have I never seen you on Tinder before?”

“I made him a profile last night,” Cora says, arms crossed. “I’m regretting it already.”

Derek shrugs. “I had a bad breakup awhile back. I’m just getting back into the swing of things.”

Stiles bounces on his feet, face earnest and eager. “I’d be honored to swing with you.”

“Oh, screw this,” Cora mutters, rolling her eyes. “I’ll be at the bar. See you losers later.”

“So, what do you say, Derek? Can I get a second chance for a match?”

Derek smiles, mouth full of bright white bunny teeth, and Stiles is so _screwed_. “I suppose we could tweak the algorithm, just this once,.”

“Oh _baby_.” Everyone at the gate groans. Stiles is pretty sure a TSA agent is filming them on his phone. Derek and Stiles grin at each other.

Thank god for dating apps and departure delays.

 

 


	21. Loaded Weapon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request prompt from Evansedust, with sterek, #88. “Don’t panic but I think we might have accidentally gotten married…”
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: First Son Stiles, Body Guard Derek, Married in Vegas, tumblr fic prompt

Body running on mindless, pre-coffee routine, Derek reaches for his service weapon on the nightstand, but his hand gropes a sweat-slick, heaving chest instead. He snatches his limb back, shoves it beneath the bedsheet and finds he’s sans-clothes too, his other  _ weapon _ locked and loaded between his legs. A pounding hangover headache materializes a split second before he pops open his eyes, squinting against the too-bright lights of a confusing skyline framed by chintzy polyester curtains.  Is that the Eiffel Tower? The London Eye? Where the hell is he? Then he focuses on the body laying next to him and a whole new world of hurt explodes inside his skull.

 

_ Oh shit oh god oh FUCK. _ Derek is going to get fired, deported, killed. President Stilinski hired Derek to provide 24/7 protection for her only child, Stiles, not bed him in—is that the illuminated Vegas Strip out the window?  Yes, yes it is.

 

“So, don’t panic,” says the very-naked First Son, holding up his left hand.  A new, white-gold ring glints in the neon light. “But I think we might have accidentally gotten married.”

 

Derek panics.


	22. A Bettin' Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its-a-video requested #94- "I bet I can make you scream my name."
> 
> Rating: M  
> Tags: betting, marriage, non-explicit sex, stupid boys in love, tumblr fic prompt

“If I were human, I bet I could do that faster than you,” Derek grumps behind Stiles.  He’s following along, step by step, tasked with protecting the fragile-boned human laying a line of mountain ash around a rival pack’s den.  It isn’t the first time the phrase,  _ I bet _ , has popped up between them, but it’s the first time Stiles recognizes the tone—three parts competition, one part good-natured ribbing—for what it is.

 

Look at me.  Notice me.  _ Play with me. _

 

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Derek grew up in a rambunctious household of werewolves and humans jockeying for attention.  Stiles knows about Laura and Cora, but there were other siblings, too, cousins, aunts and uncles; loved ones it took Derek years to mention, though now he freely throws around their names, volleying stories about them back and forth with pack members. 

 

And that’s what Stiles is, how Derek treats him:  _ pack _ .

 

He continues pouring ash from a small velvet pouch without sparing Derek a glance.  “Psssh. You’d totally suck at this. You have no  _ finesse _ . And don’t break my concentration, dude, or I’ll shove this powder up your a—”

 

They don’t get to finish because eleven half-shifted wolves come roaring out of the building, howling a fight song, Scott and Liam nipping at their heels. 

 

After that, there’s no excuse for Stiles to rise to every  _ I bet  _ Derek dangles in the water.  Stiles is wise to Derek’s game, but for better or worse, it’s not in his DNA to swim idly past.  

 

Stiles loses every bet he takes.

 

“I bet you can’t eat all those hotdogs,” concludes with Stiles cleaning the whole kitchen after he pukes.  

 

“I bet I’m a better chess player than you,” results in Stiles losing six games in a row one rainy Saturday and doing Derek’s laundry for a month.  

 

Then there’s, “I bet I can plan a better first date than you.” Stiles hates to admit Derek’s nature walk and picnic lunch top Stiles’ pizza, beer and bowling.  

 

And Derek’s gravelly voice from the hospital bed saying, “I bet you were scared I’d actually died this time.” Stiles doesn’t verbally concede, but his shaking limbs wrapped around Derek’s healing body gives away the game.

 

A few years later Stiles surrenders with a teary, “Oh, screw you, asshole,” when Derek emerges victorious from, “I bet my wedding vows will make you cry.”

 

Gamblers can never accept that the House always wins, so when Derek whispers, “I bet I can make you scream my name,” words wet against the juncture of his ear and jaw, Stiles counters with a playful, breathless, “Doubt you have what it takes, Hale.”  Stiles is a sucker for long-shots, 

 

He loses yet again.  But this time, it feels a lot like winning.

 


	23. Kiss Me Quick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Chalala, #71: “Kiss me, quick!”
> 
> Rating: G  
> Tags: forced kiss, terrible app games, coffeeshop AU, meet cute, tumblr fic prompt

**71: “Kiss me, quick!”**

 

Derek’s cellphone grants him immunity from the eye rolling and foot shifting of the coffee shop line, currently ten disgruntled customers deep.  It’s his day off, he’s in no rush and he’s Grand Sultan II in  _ Game of Sultans _ . In the middle of negotiating an advantageous marriage for one of his heirs, long, tapered fingers with raggedly chewed nails wrap around his wrist. 

 

Green eyes travel along the fingers, over the thick-veined hand they’re attached to, up a sinewy arm. There’s a shoulder, deceptively broad and clad in a plaid shirt, and a pale, graceful neck Derek wants to lick. On top of it sits the cutest guy Derek has ever seen, face decorated in tiny moles, generous smile just a bit too wide.

 

“Kiss me, quick!” Cute-Mole-Guy hisses.

 

Derek gets out an inarticulate, “huh?” before his arms are full of warm Cute-Mole-Guy and he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. He kisses back, shocked, and is rewarded with a tongue swiping along his bottom lip. A loud, feminine huff resonates behind him, and the bell over the coffee shop door tinkles ominously.

 

Just as fast, his arms are empty, dangling in mid air, his phone chiming with Discord notifications.  “Huh?”

 

“Oh, dude.  I am so sorry! I didn't mean to-” Cute-Mole-Guy motions toward Derek’s face- “get all up on that. Please don’t punch me.  My ex walked in and, listen, the breakup was  _ rough _ . You know?  No, you probably don’t.  Look at you.” Cute-Mole-Guy wolf whistles. “Anywho, it was like, I ascended the astral plane or something, and BAM!” His hands slap together an inch from Derek’s nose, and Derek goes cross-eyed. “My lips found yours.”

 

Cute-Mole-Guy shrugs.

 

“So…” Derek blinks. His phone chirps again. “You kissed me, a total stranger, to make your ex jealous?”

 

“I have poor impulse control.  Hey, someone’s blowing up your phone.  You want to answer that?”

 

“No it’s…” Derek checks his lock screen.  “It’s a game.”

 

“Ohhhhhhh.” Cute-Mole-Guy leans in.  “Which one?”

 

“Uh,  _ Game of Sultans _ ?” Derek answers sheepishly.

 

“Oh, dude!  I’m so addicted to that game!”  He pulls out his phone, swipes, taps, holds up the colorful screen.  “My Cecilia just made Noble Consort yesterday.”

 

“Guys!” The harried barista calls. “Are you ordering or not?” The space in front of them has cleared, and dirty looks are being shot their way.

 

“Let me buy you a drink…what’s your name?” 

 

“Derek,” he supplies.

 

“Nice to meet you, Derek.” Cute-Mole-Guy’s smile is genuine this time.  “I’m Stiles. Now, your coffee is on me. No pressure, but we could sit together.  I’d like to get to know the man who’d willingly give up his lips for a good cause.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, shoving his phone into his back pocket.  They step up to the counter to place their orders. “I’d like that.” It’s his day off, he’s in no rush, and this seems like a game he’ll really enjoy playing.  

 


	24. I Remember Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Chalala #95 "I Remember Everything"
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: violence, mention of blood, panic attack

**91: “I remember everything.”**

 

Stiles’ heart hammers so loud Derek hardly hears the pounding of combat boots in the hallway. According to Jackson and Ethan’s intel, hunters abandoned this base months ago, but they must be watching, waiting, because they’ve barely graced the second floor landing when the front door splinters with a deafening  _ boom _ .

 

Derek thinks, as he roughly shoves Stiles into a tiny linen closet outside a gutted bathroom, it’s the closest call they’ve had in years.  Their backup is still miles away, and there’s a very real chance one or both of them could be shot in this crappy brownstone outside London that reeks of piss and mold.  _ Shit _ . Derek should have told Stiles how he felt, kissed him at least once.  He may never get the chance.

 

Walkie-talkie static crackles and voices ring out, but Derek can’t decipher words over Stiles’ shallow panting and rapid-fire heartbeat.  He’s grabbing at his t-shirt, pulling it away from his neck and it’s been years, but Derek knows what’s happening, what he needs to do to stem the rising panic choking Stiles.

 

Lighting-fast he pivots them in the minuscule space, slamming himself up against Stiles’ back as best he can.  He puts one hand over Stiles’ chest, let’s a subsonic growl vibrate his body. In seconds, Stiles’ breathing evens out, his shaking stops, his heart calms.  

 

Too quick the doorknob rattles. Derek’s claws and teeth descend. Chaos ensues.  

 

Later, after a second panic attack, Stiles’ head lolls back against Derek’s shoulder, and Stiles whisper-slurs up at him, lips tickling his jawline.  “You remembered.”

 

Scott and the rest clean up the carnage, apply crushed wolfsbane ash to black bullet holes. “I remember everything,” Derek replies, “when it comes to you.” Then he kisses Stiles, soft and gentle, and Stiles kisses back.


	25. Le Petit Mort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For loyalty2waystreet. Prompt number 86. "I guess dying with you isn't the worst way to go."
> 
> Rating: M  
> Tags: non-explicit sexual content, morning after,

If you’d asked twelve hours ago, Stiles would have said he’d always found the phrase  _ le petite mort _ —the little death—pretty freaking pretentious. Come on, nobody is  _ that _ good in bed.  But that was twelve hours ago, before a body-warm sheet draped across Derek’s groin and thighs, before sunbeams chased each other across the divot between Derek’s clavicles.  Now Stiles lazily ponders who coined the phrase, because he wants to shake their hand and boast about dying three times last night. He’ll google it, as soon as he summons the energy to move his heavy, sated limbs.  Which will be never.

 

“I can  _ hear _ your brain,” Derek huffs, eyelids a barricade against the dawn light invading the bedroom.  “Do I even want to know?”

 

Stiles isn’t naive enough to think it will always be like this: bucket-kicking, farm-buying, daisy-pushing explosions. He’s at peace knowing there will sometimes be reprieves.  “I was just thinking, if I have to bite it sometime, I guess dying with you isn't the worst way to go.”

 

Derek cracks open one eye.  “If I do that thing you liked with my mouth again, will you quit being so morbid?”

 

Stiles’ fourth life comes to a sticky end.


	26. No Going Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Chalala: #95 "There's no going back if we do this."
> 
> Rating: T  
> Tags: swearing, kate argent, dark, vampire!Stiles, 
> 
> This is a prequel to Chapter 12 of this collection, [Knocking on Heaven's Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874068/chapters/38451170) from Sterek Week 2018

  1. **“There’s no going back if we do this,”**



 

 _“...and the marriage was celebrated the very next day with the utmost splendor, and Beauty and the Beast, who was now a prince, lived happily ever after.  The end._ ”  Talia Hale gently closed the tattered cover of the old book.  Derek followed along, translating the French in his head as best he could while his mother read aloud.  His younger sister, Cora, tucked herself tight under their mother’s arm. His older sister, Laura, had grown too old for children’s stories, and Derek’s time to give them up was coming soon, but for now he enjoyed the familial comfort of their bedtime ritual.  

 

“It’s so _romantic_ ,” Cora sighed.  Derek fought the urge to pucker his mouth at her saccharine tone.  “The idea that someone beautiful could fall in love with a monster.” And then, because nine-years-olds don’t understand the world—not like twelve-years-olds do—Cora whispered, “Do you think anyone could ever love the monster downstairs?”  

 

Derek’s mother stiffened between them.  She reached over, placed the heavy tome on Cora’s nightstand, giving her youngest child her undivided attention.  “Cora, baby, you must never go into the cellar. That creature is dangerous.”

 

“But mom,” Cora mewled.  “What if he just wants a friend, like the Beast in the story?  What if he just wants someone to read to him?”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek spat.  “It’s not some prince in disguise.  It’s a blood-sucking monster. An _abomination_.”

 

“Derek!” Talka admonished.  “Don’t speak to your sister that way.”  She turned back to Cora, sweeping brown fly-away hairs off her forehead when Derek lowered his eyes in submission, picking imaginary lint from his flannel pajama pants. “You must remember: we are all monsters and abominations in the eyes of Hunters.  It’s peaceful now, but it wasn’t always, and peace never lasts. This isn’t a fairytale. The creature is in the basement for protection, and none of you are to go down there. _Ever_.”

 

***

 

“Don’t you think it’s _wrong_?” Cora asked one evening two years later. They sat doing homework at the kitchen table, her voice pitched so low it was a growl.  She stared at the cellar door. On the other side of the house, their parents sat watching a comedy show and laughing periodically, so Derek answered in the same tone to ensure they wouldn’t hear.  

 

“What?”

 

She gestured toward the door, with its padlock and key code.  “That we keep him locked down there?”

 

The basement had been built into cells with spelled iron bars, serving to keep young wolves contained during their first transformations.  Derek and Cora hadn’t needed the cells in years, but they’d both spent full-moon nights there as children, and while the cells weren’t luxury suites, Derek could think up a lot worse places to be.

 

“It has clothes,” he shrugged.  “Mom and Dad bring it food.”

 

Cora grimaced. “Yeah, bags of blood from the hospital.” Wide brown eyes beseeched: _Agree with me. Understand_.

 

“Whatever, Cora.” Derek flipped the page in his math textbook, avoiding her gaze. The whole conversation felt like a raised palm, poised and ready to slap his parents, his _Alpha_ , in the face. “Mom told us it’s down there for protection.  Leave it alone.”

 

“ _Our_ protection, Derek,” she hissed.  “Not _his_.  He’s kept down there because he’s a bargaining chip.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Cora’s lips pulled back in disgust.  “In the supernatural hierarchy, a Vampire is more dangerous than a Werewolf. Everyone knows that.” Derek raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “In case something ever happens to one of us, mom and dad can pull him out and wave him around like a white flag, cut a deal; our lives for his.”  

 

“No.  Mom and Dad are _good people_.  They’d never…” A niggle of doubt, and the blow was struck.

 

At Derek’s wide-eyed expression she huffed, scrapping the legs of her chair across the tile floor when she shot up and snatched her backpack off the table.  “God, Derek. Even good people do shitty stuff. Open your eyes and grow up.”  

 

She stormed out, leaving him staring at the basement door.  

 

***

 

It happened the weekend of his parent’s twentieth wedding anniversary.  They’d gone away for a romantic weekend, leaving seventeen-year-old Laura in charge.  Uncle Peter was slated to stop over Saturday evening to bring the creature in basement blood. Something about Uncle Peter’s face when he’d leave the cells always unnerved Derek, so he hid in his room all night. 

 

“I’m running into town to pick up pizzas,” Laura told him, poking her head around the door jamb.  “Will you and Cora be okay for an hour?”

 

“I’m fifteen, Laura.  We’ll be fine.”

 

Laura rolled her eyes and flipped him off, then bounded down the staircase.  Thirty seconds later gravel crunched and sprayed under the spinning tires of her new black Camaro.

 

Fifteen minutes later, when he realized he couldn’t detect another heartbeat in the house,  he launched out into the hallway, yelling Cora’s name. When she didn’t answer, he flew onto the front porch, howling into the night.  No answer.

 

“She wouldn’t.  She didn’t,” he mumbled.  _She may have._

 

He marched back to the basement door, popped his claws, and ripped the padlock off.  The faint smell of must assaulted his nose as he jumped down the rickety wooden stairs, puffing up his shoulders and shifting to beta form as soon as his toes touched the cement floor.

 

It stood in the corner of its cell, arms crossed, staring up at a small rectangular window covered with an iron grate and framed with black out curtains.  A sliver of moonlight streamed in, spilling across the floor, bleeding into the shadows like ink on a page. In the opposite corner a cot sat piled high with blankets and sheets.  Derek was stunned to recognize a red blanket that formerly graced the bottom of his own bed.  

 

He’d given the creature some thought, though not nearly as much as Cora, but when he envisioned a _Vampire_ he’d imagined the old Hollywood version—a wrinkled old man with frizzy white hair talking in a contrived Transylvanian accent, who turned into a bat.  

 

Instead he discovered someone downright alluring.   

 

Tall and sleek. An old flannel shirt—Derek remembered his dad wearing it years ago—was buttoned across his thin chest, too-long sleeves rolled up to reveal wiry arms and long, strong fingers on large hands. 

 

He appeared to be the same age as Derek, maybe a little older.  Milk-white skin was dotted with dark moles, a reversed mirror image of the world glimpsed through his cell window: black sky littered with ivory constellations.  He was so quiet and still; if he’d hid in the shadows Derek might have unknowingly passed him by. As it was, Derek flashed beta-gold eyes and growled menacingly.  “Where is my sister?”

 

The Vampire didn’t glance at him, didn’t speak.  Derek stalked closer to the bars and growled louder.  “Where the fuck is my sister?”

 

“Which one?” The creature asked, and Derek took a step back.  No over-the-top accent, just the soft voice of a young man. 

 

After a beat of silence with no answer from Derek, the Vampire flicked over hypnotizing brown eyes, almost the same beta gold as Derek’s.  “I asked you a question, pup. Which sister have you lost? The one who stomped her boots down the stairs and drove off half an hour ago? Or the one who ran into the preserve ten minutes before you started squealing like a pig?” 

 

Derek bristled. “She’s not out there. I called her and she didn't answer. What have you done with her?  Did you lure her down here?”

 

The Vampire cocked his head, listened, never took his eyes off Derek.  “She is out there, pup. _Practicing_. She masked her scent, as your mother was teaching you both to do.”  

 

 _It listens to us._ Derek was unnerved and fascinated.  “Then tell me where she went.”

 

“She’s swimming.” 

 

“Swimming?” Disbelieving laughter echoed between them. “It’s the end of September.  The reservoir is freezing.” 

 

“I have no reason to lie, pup. Go see.”

 

He wasn’t taking orders.  He was making sure his little sister was safe.

 

Derek sprinted from the house, bounded over fallen trees, dashed through underbrush and  raced the three miles to the reservoir, skidding to a halt beside the dark, placid water. No ripples.  No air bubbles. He cursed himself for a fool to listen to a half-demonic creature, when Cora’s head broke the surface.  

 

“Derek?” She sputtered, spitting out water.  “How did you know where I was?”

 

***

“I don’t like it,” his mother proclaimed, arms crossed.  “It’s dangerous.”

 

“He’s safely locked away and the bars are spelled.  I just want to talk to him. Did you know in his culture the word for Vampire is _strix_ ?  I could learn more, add the information to our library. Be _helpful_.”

 

Derek’s mother saw right through him.  “You’re already helpful, without having to befriend an apex predator. Once he got out, if he got out, there’d be no getting him back in. We’d have to live with those consequences all our lives. I don’t think you’re old enough to understand that.”

  


“I get it.” He didn’t get it at all. “It’s like you always say; we’re predators, but we don’t have to be killers.” Derek kept his chin high. “Or were those just pretty words to mask an ugly truth about us.”

 

“Derek!” His mother admonished, eyes flashing red.  But he didn’t back down.

 

“We have him caged like an animal.  How can we say we’re any better than the Hunters?”

 

She eyed him, weighing his intentions against his merit.  “Don’t get attached,” she relented, voice quiet. “And you’re on blood delivery duty from now on.”

 

***

 

“I don’t like the girl.” Stiles—as the Vampire preferred to be called—lingered in the corner of his cage.  “She smells...wrong.”

 

“You’re just jealous,” Derek taunted, but he jotted down the new fact in his ever-growing notebook: _Vampire’s can smell someone’s skin from twenty feet away._

 

Such focused attention from a substitute teacher, even one as pretty as Ms. Argent, didn’t settle right in Derek’s chest, but he couldn’t help being flattered. Opposing emotions mixed with guilt, and curdled in his heart. _Don’t tell your mom.  She wouldn’t understand._ Maybe Kate was right. There was a lot his mother didn’t understand.  A prime example stood in front of him a homemade prison. “I bet hot older chicks never paid attention to your pale, skinny ass,” Derek deflected.

 

Not once in the year and a half Derek visited him did Stiles come anywhere near the bars, until that moment.

 

Derek didn’t have time to stumble back or drop his book before Stiles’ fist knotted in his t-shirt, pulling him flush against the cell.  Before his brain screamed _run fight run_ Stiles leaned forward, ran the cold tip of his nose up Derek’s cheek, right where Kate had lovingly stroked him after class.  

 

“Stay away, pup,” Stiles hissed, voice ancient.  “Death follows her. I would know.” Derek fell back, scrubbing hard at his face when Stiles released him. 

 

“What the hell?!  My mother was right, you’re just a savage, waiting for its moment to strike.” He threw the book at Stiles’ placid face, but it bounced off the bars and fell to the floor.  “I thought you deserved to be free. I went against my _Alpha_. But all you’re good for is hunter bait.  I can’t believe I wasted so much time talking to you.”  He stomped to the stairs. 

 

“Kate Argent is trouble,” Stiles called, but Derek slammed the basement door and snapped the lock closed.

 

***

They’re dead.  They’re all dead.  And it’s his fault.  

 

Laura, bruised and bloody, eyes blazing alpha red, grabbed at his arm when Derek stumbled toward the rectangular window at the back foundation.  “Derek, no! There’s no one left!”

 

“There’s someone,” he answered.  

 

Stiles huddled in the corner of his cell, smothering encroaching orange and blue flames with his ratty hand-me-down blankets.  He locked eyes with Derek through the opening.

 

“I want you to destroy her,” Derek said, pain and grief ripping at his vocal cords. “I want you to tear every hunter limb from limb.”

 

“There’s no going back if we do this,” Stiles warned, face upturned like the first time Derek saw him; now Derek was the moon.  “You’ll be the man who released a monster unto the world; the man who opened Pandora’s box.”

 

“Kill them all,” Derek commanded, and ripped the iron bars off the window.

 

A beast with glowing red eyes flew through the small space, into Derek’s lap.  “Your wish is my command, pup.” Stiles swiped a thumb over Derek’s lip, gathering up a stray flake of drying blood.  He licked the soiled finger, smile filled with too many razor sharp teeth. “We’ll meet again.”

 

Then, in a flash, the monster was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm Jamie! Feel free to [prompt me on tumblr](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/) if you'd like me to write you something.


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